


30 Day Slow Burn OTP Challenge - Mystrade

by Castastrophe



Series: Slow Burn [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 30 Day Slow Burn OTP Challenge, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I know I suck at posting daily but i cheated a bit, I really love Mycroft's umbrella, M/M, No Johnlock, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smut, The real OTP is actually Mycroft/Mycroft's umbrella, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mystrade, so we're all set
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-14 22:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2206155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castastrophe/pseuds/Castastrophe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>30 days of Mystrade slow burn. </p><p>With a failing marriage, a tiring job, and the constant hassle of one Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade wasn't looking for romance. Truthfully, he wasn't even looking for friendships, but somehow, Mycroft has a way of worming himself into the category of both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One - First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> From my 30 Day OTP challenge post that I made on tumblr cause I'm a loser and made my own prompts ohmygawd don't look at me. 
> 
> Mystrade is my absolute favourite, although my bookmarks would lead you to believe otherwise. 
> 
> Chapter lengths vary because sometimes I am lazy, and also, because sometimes I can't even think of much to put for my own damn prompt, or there is TOO MUCH to put down, so ugh. 
> 
> That. 
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> (psst... The post for the 30 days is [heeeeeere](http://croatoan-the-line.tumblr.com/post/95755875874/30-day-slow-burn-otp-challenge).)

London. Bloody. _Weather._

 

Gregory Lestrade stood beneath the shelter of a shop's alcove and stared longingly across the street, to where his car was parked and waiting for him. At least, he assumed it was his car, from the general shape and colour that he could make out through the torrential rain bucketing down. He lit up a cigarette and cast a look up at the sky, hoping that by sheer desperate will, the rain may ease enough for him to sneak over. No such luck.

“As a resident of London, I'm surprised you don't carry an umbrella with you out of habit alone, Detective Inspector,” A voice offered from his side, and he turned a wary gaze to the stranger who had seemingly materialised beside him.

 

He was a sharp dressed man with receding ginger hair, and an undeniable air of smug superiority to him. He was kind of handsome, in an old timey gentleman sort of way, but he was the sort of guy that you'd easily be able to miss in a crowd. Greg raised an eyebrow and pulled his cigarette from between his lips as he turned to face the figure.

“I'm apparently a sucker for punishment,” Greg remarked dryly, as the other man's lips twitched just slightly in apparent amusement, “Sorry, do I know you?”

“Not just yet, Detective Inspector, no,” The man remarked, “My name is Mycroft Holmes. I believe you dealt with my brother earlier this morning.

 

 _Ah_ , Greg thought. Pieces were starting to fall together now.

 

“Look, Mister Holmes-”

“Mycroft, please.”

“Mycroft then,” Greg sighed, tapping his cigarette to drop a column of ash as the rain continued to pound down around them, “From what I've seen, your brother's nothing short of a certified genius, but I can't have a coked up addict roaming the streets and harassing people for information. Granted, the shit he found out ended up useful, but he's lucky he didn't get himself hurt.”

“Which is exactly why I'm speaking to you now,” Mycroft commented, his fingers flexing around the handle of an umbrella that Greg desperately wished he'd had the foresight to have, “You arrested Sherlock to protect him, is my understanding. Am I correct?”

“Well, yeah,” Greg shrugged, taking a final few puffs from his cigarette before stubbing it out and tossing the butt in a nearby ashtray stand, “He's not your average addict. Most of the lot I see are strung out of their minds and desperate for the next fix. I've seen people get hurt as a result. Sherlock though? He gets himself worked up and then fixes to solve crimes, of all things. He's like London's coke addled Batman or something.”

 

Mycroft made a noise at that which very well may have bordered on a laugh, and Greg was moderately more reassured that he wasn't talking to a statue.

“Batman or not,” Mycroft commented, his voice a drawl, “Sherlock has, and _is_ , somewhat of a problem with the way he is now. I believe his little crime solving endeavours may be one of the few things that would provide incentive enough to perhaps keep him clean. Seeing my brother clean, Mister Lestrade, is one of my few small wishes in life, as I'm sure you may be able to appreciate.”

Greg made a thoughtful sound of agreement in his throat as he glanced longingly back at his car, the rain finally beginning to ease.

 

“I can, yeah, but I'm not sure what you're expecting me to be able to do about it,” Greg sighed, running a hand briefly over his face as he thought back to the lanky young man who had been curled up on a cell mattress and muttering to himself in the early hours of that morning and several other mornings in the past, “Regardless of my own opinion of your brother, there's no way the commissioner will be letting a junkie work with the Yard in any official capacity in any near future.”

“And in an unofficial capacity?” Mycroft pressed, and a frown instantly creased at Greg's brow.

“Do you _want_ me to lose my job?” he scoffed, “Career suicide. You look like the kind of man who maybe has some connections higher up or what not, and considering how fast the release for your brother comes through on any given occasion of him winding up at the Yard, I wouldn't be surprised. Maybe you should be pulling strings and getting those connections to get you what you need.”

 

Mycroft frowned just slightly, before shaking his head, and Greg felt like he was fighting a losing battle with this one.

“I could pull strings, perhaps,” The man offered slowly, seemingly uncomfortable with the words he was about to speak, “But that would result in people assisting me because they have been told to. That's not why I've approached you, Detective Inspector. I could count on one hand the amount of people who have ever endeavoured to assist Sherlock simply because they cared, and you happen to fall within that handful. Sherlock's well being is something that I was hoping may be enough of an influencing factor in your decision.”

Greg let out another sigh, because wasn't that just the most effectively manipulative thing he'd heard.

 

From the half a dozen or so instances that Greg had dealt with Sherlock, the man had been rude, brash, and beyond reason for a large majority of the time. He was a man that seemed to seldom be told no, and had found it absolutely fascinating when Greg had fed it to him on the regular before tossing him into a cell to come down from his high. Sherlock had haunted him a little, if the truth were to be told. The man was exceptionally intelligent, and yet he had, somewhere along the line, succumbed to substance abuse, for reasons that Greg neither understood nor ever really wanted to.

 

Despite all of the man's eerily accurate tellings of Greg's crumpling marriage, the functioning (or lack thereof) of Scotland Yard, and the exceptional way that he was able to pick apart just about anybody approached him, Greg had definitely developed a soft spot for the socially awkward pile of limbs that had often sulked spectacularly when incarcerated for more than an hour or so. A part of him refused to believe what the others had said about Sherlock – that he was a psychopath (Sally), that he was probably a murderer himself (Sally again), that he was a sociopath (Sherlock himself) – and had decided that the guy was likely just going off what he'd been told by others his whole life just cause he was a little left of centre. People with a mind like Sherlock's were a little too brilliant to just kick to the curb and dismiss as another token junkie.

 

Greg, on the other hand, may very well be the insane one after all, as he bit back yet another sigh and met Mycroft's eyes in defeat.

 

“I'm not going to stop locking him up if he shows up anywhere high as a kite,” He said firmly, “In fact, I won't even let him on scene if that's the case. I don't even know if I'll let him on scene regardless. Above all, he's a civilian, and he needs to remember that.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft nodded, as Greg ruffled his own hair and let out a controlled breath.

“Look, I'm not saying it'll work, but... He's a great man. He might not be a good man, but he's definitely a great one, and I guess...” Greg hesitated, kicking himself internally on multiple levels, “I guess I'll do what I can.”

There were a few beats of silence then, as Mycroft regarded him with something akin to both relief and gratitude, before giving a small nod of his head.

“Thank you,” He offered the hint of a smile in Greg's direction, and Greg fought back the compulsion to return it on impulse, “Sherlock may not yet be a good man, Detective Inspector, but it is far more than reassuring to know that he at least has one on his side. Best you get to your car while the rain has eased enough.”

 

Greg felt a flush creep along his cheeks at the compliment, as he offered a nonchalant shrug and nodded in return.

“It's no big deal,” He replied as casually as he could muster, before holding out a hand for Mycroft to shake, “I suppose I'll see you around, then?”

“I should hope so,” Mycroft murmured, offering a polite smile and a brief shake of the hand, before turning on his heel and disappearing into a throng of tourists.

 

Greg stood for a few moments in an amused stupor, before making the mad dash across the waterlogged road and throwing himself inside his car before the weather could change its mind. He wasn't too sure whether what he'd just agreed to was even the right thing to do, but he'd committed to Holmes drama several weeks earlier, so really, what was another one added to the mix?


	2. Day Two - Chance Encounter

He wasn't quite sure why his tension headaches seemed to form right at the bridge of his nose, but as he pinched the spot between thumb and forefinger, Greg was more than sure of what the cause was.

“What do you _mean_ it was a murder?” Sally scoffed, as Greg continued to massage at his skin and remained resolutely silent, “It's a locked room, from the inside mind you, and there's a note left here in the victim's _handwriting_. This screams suicide.”

“The only things in this room that are screaming are your brain cells, for their horrible luck at having been assigned to someone as horrendously idiotic as yourself. That and the Detective Inspector's headache,” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, from where he was crouched beside the body on the floor, “Although, one can't blame him, I suppose. I'm surprised he hasn't been a victim of self harm himself, with the collective mass of stupidity that is Scotland Yard surrounding him on a daily basis.”

 

Sherlock then proceeded to rattle of an astounding amount of evidence, gesturing to each piece with stilted movements, his frustration barely contained as he gesticulated wildly. Apparently the boyfriend was not the picture of grieving bereaved that Greg had dismissed him as after all. Of course.

“Well, you heard him,” Greg sighed in resignation, “Start tagging and bagging. I'm going to head over to the boyfriend's flat again, and Sally, you're coming with me.” 

“But sir! You can't just leave _him_ here!” Sally protested, throwing a distrustful eye in Sherlock's direction, who offered a toothy grin in return. 

“I'm just leaving, actually. Paracetamol in the kitchen cabinet above the fridge, Detective Inspector. You ought to take a few before the confrontation, as I highly doubt the lover will be overly cooperative,” Sherlock offered, before tugging his coat collar up and heading for the door. 

“Oi! We're gonna need your statement!” Greg called after the man's retreating form, and resorted to rolling his eyes and pinching a little harder at the bridge of his nose as Sherlock disappeared out the door.

 

He took Sherlock's advice in any case, and whilst a part of him insisted that raiding the medical box of a murder victim was probably a little less than ethical, it was no worse than having the git of a Holmes on the crime scene, and he wasn't going to tolerate this headache for much longer. 

 

For what felt like the eightieth time that month, ever since taking Sherlock on, Greg couldn't help but wonder exactly what he'd gotten himself into.

 

 

“That probably could have gone better,” Greg murmured, as Sally looked on in concern, the doctor by Greg's side meticulously stitching up the gash above his eye. Sherlock, as usual, had been right, if not completely understating fact, when he'd stated the lover would not be cooperative. If Greg had interpreted that as 'likely to come at you with a weapon', he may have been a little more cautious when entering the man's flat. 

“Anderson and I will deal with the paperwork, you should head home,” Sally pressed, eyebrows furrowed, and Greg was more than happy to let that be the case. 

 

After finishing with being patched up, they left the medical clinic and split up, Greg heading back to his parked car a few streets away from their now apprehend suspect with the promise to Sally that he'd take it easy. His headache hadn't been improved by a fist fight, that was for sure, but he wasn't all the certain that it couldn't at least be mildly alleviated by about four litres of coffee and a metric tonne of baked goods, so he found himself drawn to a nearby cafe. This entire area was way out of his regular price range, but at that moment, he'd have paid fifty quid just to have somewhere quiet to eat a damn bagel and drink his coffee in peace. 

 

He'd barely stepped through the door, when his eyes were drawn to a familiar figure in the corner of the cafe, standing and shaking the hand of what looked to be a well off businessman. He'd already dealt with one Holmes today, he wasn't sure whether adding another to the mix in his current condition was the best option. He briefly contemplated turning and finding another place to get his caffeine fix, but Mycroft met his gaze, his eyes widening in apparent surprise as he took in what Greg assumed was his truly sorry appearance. Greg gave a casual smile and a wave, before shrugging his shoulders and handing over his cash to the barista. Mycroft gestured at her then, and she nodded, before Mycroft then beckoned Greg over to his table, his business associates apparently just leaving. 

 

“Detective Inspector, I must say, this is quite the surprise,” Mycroft offered, standing to shake Greg's hand as the Inspector approached, “Please take a seat.”

“Uh, cheers. I wasn't planning on staying long though,” He admitted somewhat sheepishly, gesturing at his ruffled outfit and bandaged head, “I'm a tad out of place.”

Mycroft raised a curious brow, his eyes locked on to the aforementioned patch of gauze, and Greg snorted as he pulled out and sat down in spite of his best judgement. 

“Yeah, that's eight stitches worth of disgruntled suspect,” Greg grinned, as the barista set his coffee down before him. He'd definitely ordered it to go, but apparently Mycroft's word was law here, and really, Greg wasn't surprised. 

 

“Occupational hazards must be an interesting line of study for police force training,” Mycroft mused, humour licking at his words as he took a drink from his own mug of mysterious, vaguely coffee smelling brew. Definitely a step above a latte. Greg snorted, and took a long drag from his own cup, all but melting back into his chair with a satisfied groan. 

“That's one way to put it. Jesus _Christ,_ I needed that,” he mumbled, placing his cup down and pressing his palms against his eyes until he saw spots. 

“The coffee here is excellent. One of the reasons that my associates appreciate this venue for casual meetings,” Mycroft commented, and Greg looked over at him with an openly curious expression.

 

“What do you _do_ , exactly?” Greg asked, and Mycroft's lips twitched with that barely restrained amusement. Briefly, the Inspector wondered why it was that any of Mycroft's true hints of emotion were truly that: hints. 

“I hold a minor position within the government,” Mycroft replied, drinking more of his coffee, as Greg snorted. 

“Why do I get the feeling that that's like me telling people I print up the newsletter for Scotland Yard, and that's about it?” Greg teased, and Mycroft raised a teasing brow. 

“ _Do_ you print the newsletter?” He asked, and Greg found himself actually laughing in the presence of a Holmes. 

 

That, he thought, was a definite surprise. 

 

They ended up finishing their coffee together, and oddly enough, ordering another and finishing that too. Mycroft, Greg was finding, was not a  _complete_ prat, and he was considering the fact that perhaps Sherlock and his older brother had more in common than the pair realised. It seemed the more relaxed that Mycroft became, the more enjoyable his company was. Such was the task of keeping up appearances, it seemed. They did, admittedly, speak about Sherlock quite a bit, but Greg didn't mind. It was more than apparent that Mycroft was extremely fond of his little brother, albeit, strange in his methods of showing it. It was a little messed up, but it's not like Greg could talk. He still lived and ate breakfast with his wife, even while the pair of them casually discussed their upcoming and seemingly inevitable divorce. 

 

It wasn't that he didn't want it to work, because he did, but God, he was  _tired_ . He'd forgiven Laura more than enough times for her lying, her cheating, her manipulation, and he was just  _tired_ . When the topic of divorce had come up, she'd barely bat an eyelid. He deserved as much, he supposed. He should have ended things years ago, after the first time he'd caught her drunkenly making out with one of his work colleagues at a Christmas party. 

“If you continue to stare at your coffee as you are, Detective Inspector, I fear your mere gaze may make it bitter beyond repair,” Mycroft mused, and Greg snapped back to present time with an embarrassed flush across his cheeks. He tended to zone out at inopportune moments when he was most comfortable, and what that said about his budding friendship with Mycroft, he didn't want to dwell on for too long. 

 

It was that which made him begin to rattle on about his failing marriage, as Mycroft made sympathetic noises at the appropriate times, and frowned across the table, coffee slowly being consumed between them as Greg poured out all of his frustrations to a near-stranger. It was damn near therapeutic, however, having someone to talk to outside of his work colleagues, and god forbid, Laura herself. At the end of the conversation, Mycroft promised to discuss options with a lawyer he knew, after Greg had expressed his concerns that Laura would tear him a proverbial new one in their split. They'd then exchanged phone numbers and Mycroft politely excused himself, stating that he needed to get back to work and for Greg to call with any updates on Sherlock or if Greg himself needed anything. 

 

As Greg headed back to his car and started the drive home, he found himself surprised with how wide he'd been smiling the entire afternoon.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two days in a row!   
> That's almost a record.   
> *snort*


	3. Day Three - First Text Message/Phone Call

_Day Three - First Text Message/Phone Call_

 

For a reason that only God would have to know, it seemed every criminal in London was hell-bent on making Greg's life hell. The Detective Inspector had barely had time to sleep within the past fortnight, let alone focus on his failing marriage or keeping one Sherlock Holmes in check. So, when Greg had been forced to turn Sherlock away from three different high level clearance crime scenes, and then had to arrest him for showing up high at the fourth, his emotional state was right on the edge. Sherlock, as he was, was not making it any better.

“It's been months now that you've been _clean_ , Sherlock,” Greg sighed, leaning heavily against the bars of the cell that Sherlock was sitting sulkily on the floor of, “Why the bloody hell have you gone and taken another hit?”

“ _Boredom_ ,” Sherlock rasped, almost at the end of his high as he propped his head up in his hands, his elbows wobbling precariously on his knees as he tucked them closer to his body.

“Your brother would have an absolute fit if he could see you right now,” Greg chided, and Sherlock scoffed, raising a sharp gaze and fixing it on Greg's with apparent distaste.

“ _Mycroft_? You honestly think mentioning _Mycroft_ will be encouragement for me to _clean up my act_?” Sherlock all but sneered, “I'd foolishly thought you may be the only one with a little intelligence here. Apparently even I can be wrong.”

 

Greg managed to resist the urge to bang his head repeatedly against the bars, and instead, rest it against the cool metal in the hopes that it would ease the coming on of yet another catastrophic migraine. Just what he didn't need, thank you very much.

“When most people get bored, they... I dunno, read a book or something,” Greg frowned, and Sherlock dropped his head back into his hands.

“Yes, well... I'm not most people, am I?” He huffed, and Greg caved just a little and tapped his head against the bars a couple of times because how on Earth could someone so intelligent be so completely _daft_? He didn't understand. He _couldn't_ understand.

“Well, depending on how quick your papers arrive, you should be out in the next few hours,” Greg explained, his voice as tired as he felt, “I'd recommend not getting too stroppy and maybe eating whatever the lass at admissions decides to stuff through the flap come meal time.”

Sherlock grunted, and Greg took that to be as much of a response as he'd get, before heading to his office.

 

He'd barely sat down at his desk before his mobile began to ring, and he stared it down with as much menace as he could, before reaching across the wooden surface of his desk and pressing it to his ear.

“Lestrade,” He offered, and there was a beat of silence, before a familiar voice was drifting down the line.

“ _I did so_ _ **hope**_ _that circumstances for our next contact would be decidedly more pleasant, Detective Inspector_ ,” Mycroft offered, his voice soft and almost defeated, and Greg felt a stab of sympathy for the man on the other end of the line.

 

“Can't win them all, Mycroft,” Greg offered as apologetically as he could, before a sigh came down the line.

“ _Apparently not. I am assuming he's still within your custody?_ ”

“Yeah. He's just finishing coming down. He's at least stopped the hundred kilometre an hour monologue he was on before,” Greg sighed, rubbing a hand across his eyes as as he leaned back in his chair, “I'm sorry that this had to happen. It's probably because I'd had no choice but to turn him away from the past three cases he's been snooping around, and-”

“ _Please don't blame yourself for my brother having relapsed, Gregory_ ,” Mycroft interrupted, and Greg startled a little at the use of his name, “ _It's a miracle, to be frank, that he has lasted as long as he has, and I have you to thank._ ”

 

Greg, with all of his training in people skills, with all of his experience in dealing with upset relatives, found himself at a loss for words. Mycroft's anguish and disappointment over Sherlock's latest arrest was palpable even down the phone, and he found himself fidgeting with a pen on his desk, simply to keep his hands occupied from the thought of offering the guy a hug or _something_ , no matter how empty the gesture would probably seem. Instead of offering words of comfort or even reassurances that he wasn't too sure he could actually keep, Greg found himself saying something without his brain even registering what was leaving his mouth.

 

“Have you had lunch?” The Inspector asked, and there were a few beats of silence on the other end of the line, which Greg cringed at, before Mycroft spoke again.

“ _I have not, no..._ ”

“Well, this is all a bit shit, I'm stressed to my eyeballs, I'm starving, and I'd be desperately willing to sneak off for a bite. It'd do me good, and maybe if you can squeeze the time in, it might suit you as well,” Greg shrugged, “I know your paperwork skills in your minor government role are impressive to say the least, but I'm sure Sherlock could use the quiet time for a little reflection.”

 

Mycroft was quiet for another few moments, in which Greg resolutely told himself that he would not scrabble to take his invitation back.

“ _I... Yes, that's likely true. Very well. I can have a car there in fifteen minutes, if that suits you?_ ” Mycroft offered, seemingly surprised, and Greg caught himself grinning in triumph before he spoke again.

“Yeah, the sooner the better. Alright, I'll see you soon,” He offered, and rang off, before stuffing his phone back into his pocket and stifling a yawn. There was a half a cup of cold coffee still on his desk, which he resolutely ignored in favour of a few swigs from his water bottle instead. He may not have time for coffee or sleep, but in a way, he was a little relieved to have found some time for Mycroft Holmes.

 

Somehow, Greg mused, as he signed a stack of papers sitting haphazardly on the edge of his desk, he'd seemingly made a friend.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my fault that I'm 3 minutes late. AO3 ate my work. You know how it is.


	4. Day Four - Just Hanging Out

 

Greg made it downstairs just on time, as fifteen minutes from Mycroft declaring he'd provide a car, a sleek black sedan was pulling up outside of the Yard, and the driver was offering a polite nod of acknowledgement in Greg's direction. It was all a little secret spy worthy, and Greg briefly wondered if 007 himself would be sitting behind the door as he opened it. It was Mycroft, however, who offered an amused expression as Greg clambered in and shut the door behind him.

“I'm afraid Mister Bond couldn't make it,” Mycroft mused, and Greg snorted, shaking his head as he buckled up his seatbelt.

“If I didn't know better, I'd swear you Holmes lads were psychic,” Greg teased, and Mycroft idly drummed his fingers as the car took off and he cast a coy glance in Greg's direction.

“Are you sure you _do_ know better, Detective Inspector?” Mycroft teased just as casually, and Greg playfully nudged him with his elbow before stifling another yawn.

 

“So did you have anywhere in particular in mind?” Greg asked, “I mean, I know it was me who recommended it, but most places I eat, I'm not sure you'd feel overly comfortable in. It'd be like putting a peacock in a pig pen.”

“I'm not sure whether to be insulted or flattered...” Mycroft drawled, voice lilting just slightly with amusement, “But yes. I've made reservations at a venue I imagine would be a fair middle ground for the both of us.”

“God only knows what you think that constitutes as,” Greg snorted, as Mycroft merely smirked slightly and crossed his legs, all long lines and gangly limbs.

“You'll soon find out, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft offered, and Greg rolled his eyes.

“Look, if I have to fight down the compulsion to call you sir and Mister Holmes while you're dressed up like the next Prime Minister, I'm pretty sure it's alright for you to call me by name as well,” Greg shrugged, and Mycroft nodded, seemingly amused.

“Very well, Gregory,” Mycroft offered smoothly, and a smile licked unbidden at Greg's lips, “What?”

“I haven't been called Gregory since I was in school,” He snorted, before noting Mycroft's uncomfortable expression and shaking his head with a wide grin, “Nah, it's good. It suits, coming from you, actually. Was just reflecting a little.”

Mycroft relaxed into a small smile once again, and sat quietly while Greg rattled off little details about his work life since they last saw each other until the car pulled to a stop.

 

Mycroft had picked well, Greg realised, and despite all of the horror scenarios that the detective inspector had envisioned, the place they walked into was... normal. A little more upscale to what Greg was used to but it was cosy and comfortable with the lingering smell of booze and cigarettes, and Greg realised that the dining area was attached to a sports bar. Definitely not somewhere he'd expect Mycroft to be found, but as they approached the dining area, the girl who approached them did so with a familiar smile in Mycroft's direction that implied otherwise.

“Mister Holmes, back so soon?” She asked, and Mycroft merely nodded politely, as she guided them to a table and sat them down with a couple of menus.

“Didn't pick you as a local here,” Greg teased, throwing another glance around the room and spotting several figures who looked maybe a little _too_ casual, before lowering his head and lowering his voice.

“Although, with the security you have here, I guess you have to be,” Greg offered, delighting in the impressed expression Mycroft offered in return. Surprising a Holmes was one of his favourite pastimes.

“Yes, well, when one develops certain patterns, one has to ensure that they accommodate for the people who may notice them,” Mycroft remarked airily, eyes drifting lazily across the menu as he flicked a glance in Greg's direction, “I'd recommend the steak or the risotto, personally. Both are excellent.”

 

Greg did order the risotto, and when it came out, it was, in fact, excellent. He forcibly reminded himself to chew with his mouth closed, even though the little bursts of flavour explosion on his tongue were making his mouth want to contort around various pleased noises, most of which were certainly not restaurant appropriate. Mycroft had ordered some kind of chicken salad that Greg had eyed of sceptically, because there was just so much _green_ that it seemed impossible for the meal to be terribly too satisfying.

“Watching my figure,” Mycroft commented, as he continued to pluck out pieces of chicken from beneath his lettuce leaves and Greg raised a disbelieving brow.

“You're shitting me, right?” He commented, as Mycroft lifted his shoulder in a shrug and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, “You got nothing to worry about, seriously. I've seen people who ought to consider watching their figure and they're well above and beyond your figure. You're all set.”

“Sherlock may disagree if he heard you say that...” Mycroft mused, his smile slipping from his lips as he cleared his throat and took a long sip from his wine, and there it was. The elephant in the room.

 

They'd managed the afternoon so far without having mentioned Sherlock once, but now that the name had pierced their happy little bubble of self denial, Greg figured he may as well get his own words off of his chest and if Mycroft wanted to vent a little, that was perfectly okay too.

“Your brother is the most intelligent idiot I've ever met,” Greg began, and Mycroft frowned slightly, moving to speak before Greg held up a hand, “Nope, not finished. He is absolutely bloody brilliant, and he consciously makes the decision to do this to himself, and for that, I can't help but think he's an idiot. But I don't hate him, I don't think any less of him, and frankly, I just find myself compelled to help the git.”

Greg stabbed his fork into his risotto and chewed vigorously, his frustration at the entire situation bubbling up in his chest, as he then pointed his cutlery aggressively in Mycroft's direction.

“The thing is, _he_ does this. He does. It doesn't reflect on you as a brother, or me as a friend or whatever he and I even are, or your ability to look after the guy or whatever. I've seen you do more for that man than just about anybody else could, and you do it all without being asked and with minimal complaint,” Greg shrugged, swallowing his mouthful, “I'm a little brother myself, and trust me, if I had an older brother like you, my parents would be relieved.”

 

 

Mycroft regarded him curiously for a few moments, before tipping his head forward in a barely noticeable gesture.

“You're an intriguing man, Gregory,” Mycroft commented softly, as he dabbed at his mouth again and set his fork down, “Thank you for your kind words.”

“It's the truth. I dunno what shit was like for you two back in the day, but you can't keep beating yourself up over one of your siblings' repeated mistakes,” Greg shrugged, setting his own fork down within his now empty bowl, “You'll drive yourself up the wall. Sherlock's a... he's a grown up. God forbid I ever admit that to him in person cause he's a spoiled child eighty percent of the time, but Christ, you can't be with him every step of the way. You have your own minor position in government to hold after all.”

 

Mycroft smiled at this, a soft but genuine thing, his teeth peeking out from just behind his lips, and Greg considered that a win in some sense of the word. He felt his own tension relieving a little at the sight, and Jesus, had he really never seen Mycroft like this? It was... compelling, to say the least. He didn't care what he took, he'd already committed himself to making sure that the man across from him looked like that a little more often. Everyone deserved happiness, after all.

 

The rest of their lunch passed smoothly, the topic shifting to safer grounds, and Greg was a little pleased to find that Mycroft seemed genuinely interested in the shit pouring out of Greg's mouth. Not for the first time, he wondered if Mycroft had many people who were willing to be _genuine_ with him, and the thought sent a pang of... sadness?... through the Inspector's chest. By the time Mycroft was dropping him back at the Yard with the promise to stay in touch, Greg had it firm within his mind that if Mycroft didn't have any friends, well, Greg would just have to be the greatest one possible.

 

Admittedly, it would be no easy task, but then again, Gregory Lestrade was never one to back down from a challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just re-watched season three. My feels, man. Mycroft just loves Sherlock so damn much. He just **_does_**. Excuse me while I curl up in the corner and make hysterical sobbing noises.


	5. Day Five - Discussing The Other Person With A Third Party/Acknowledging The Crush

Greg had barely stepped through the door, when Sally was at his side, annoyance along her features as he gestured towards the cells.

“What is it?” Greg asked, and she shook her head, clearly frustrated.

“Freak's kicking up a stink,” She explained, “He's been harassing the rest of us to speak to you for the past fifteen minutes or so. Said he'd keep at it until you got back.”

Greg bit back on the sigh hovering just behind his lips and resigned to the fact that he would have to deal with a sulky Sherlock within the next few minutes, and the little balloon of happiness sitting in his chest was drifting dangerously close to the proverbial pin in the process.

“I'll deal with him. I need you guys on the Greenmark case,” Greg said as firmly as he could, and Sally nodded, disappearing with the other officers who were hovering by the cells in apparent curiosity as Greg became aware of Sherlock's voice carrying down the hall.

“...You can say whatever you like, I am not going to speak to _you_. I've requested the Inspector, I expect no _less_ ,” Sherlock huffed, and Greg didn't even bother trying to hold back that sigh any longer as he stepped into the holding cell area and met Sherlock's accusatory gaze through his cell bars.

 

“ _There_ you are. Good. None of your monkeys would tell me where you'd gotten to and I made it quite clea-” Sherlock cut off mid sentence, his gaze flicking across Greg and giving the Inspector the impression of being picked apart, before Sherlock let out a groan and fell back dramatically onto his cell bed.

“Repulsive. Just _repulsive_ ,” The genius spat, “Why anybody would _voluntarily_ subject themselves to my brother is entirely beyond me. I suppose he's offered you money keep tabs on me? Spy on me, as is the norm?”

“Firstly, who says I don't do that for free already?” Greg replied gruffly, an odd sense of familiar affection running through him as Sherlock curled up on his mattress and sulked petulantly, “Secondly, your brother's looking out for your best interests, we both are, and you're being a royal prat when it comes to that effort, let me tell you. You're pretty hard on him as it is, I'd think you'd want to ease up a little when he's one of the few people capable of actually getting you out of here.”

 

“And yet he _hasn't,_ ” Sherlock mused, fingers pent before his face as he lay flat on his back and stared at the ceiling, “Most unusual. The longest he's left me incarcerated was five hours. As far as my knowledge extends it's been approximately seven now, with no known signs of him moving any time soon, meaning that he may very well intend to keep me here for an undetermined length of time longer, but _why_ would he do that when every other time previously--” Sherlock stopped, sitting upright and narrowing his gaze at Greg as he did so, “It's _you_. The only variable. Giving that and the fact that you spent time with him this afternoon, it's obvious that you've spoken to him about me. About what? In short, my supposed _dependence_ on him, likely reassuring him that he needn't concern himself nor dive so quickly to my rescue. You've somehow convinced him that I have made my own bed and am capable of lying in it, and he listened. This is... interesting.”

“Oh?” Greg offered, amused, as Sherlock's scowl deepened.

“Oh God, you've made _friends_ ,” Sherlock all but spat the word out, his face crinkling in distaste as he threw himself back on the mattress, “You should know that there is more than one reason that Mycroft doesn't _have_ friends, and it would serve you well to terminate whatever budding relationship you may have as anything beyond friendship whilst you're at it.”

 

Greg blinked stupidly for a moment, before frowning and opening his mouth to protest.

“Don't bother, it's not likely even something you've realised yourself yet,” Sherlock waved a hand airily, “But you're attracted to him at the least. Your demeanour shifts, albeit subtly, with every word you speak of him. It's not attached to me, as your affection for me is primarily expressed through tone of voice and your words themselves. With Mycroft, your posture, your tone of voice, your facial expressions – crows feet becoming more prominent, eyes brighter, slightly dilated, lips unconsciously parting – they all express a need for him at the mere thought. Repulsive as it is, it is undeniable. Beyond that, for all of his bitterness and endless interfering, he can be exceptionally charming. Mummy did always appreciate him the most for that.”

 

“You're reading way too much into things,” Greg huffed, as Sherlock didn't shift from his position on his back, merely smirking as he spoke next.

“Please, Detective Inspector, keep this conversation in mind for when your relationship begins to bloom,” Sherlock drawled, “You may then thank me by firing Anderson and hiring a new scene analyst.”

“Whatever you'd like to think, Sherlock,” Greg sighed, pulling up a chair and sitting beside the bars as he cleared his throat and shifted to his intended conversation.

“I can't have you on crime scenes if you're high, you know that,” Greg said softly, and Sherlock rolled onto his side to face the wall, “Is there something... I don't know, Sherlock. Is there something I could do? Something you could do, or something you need to get this sorted? Make it a bit easier for whatever goes through your head at the time?”

Sherlock scoffed, but said nothing, and Greg ran a hand through his hair as he leaned against his knees and picked at his sleeve.

 

“I'm about as useful at these feelings conversations as you are, but I consider us friends, God help me,” Greg frowned, pinching at the bridge of his nose, “I just want you to know I'm here if you need me. I can help to get you on crime scenes, maybe give you some cold cases to look through, even. I can't do that unless you want to help yourself as well, though. Do you understand?”

Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around him, and Greg figured it was about as much of an answer as he was getting for now. He stood and put the chair back where he'd grabbed it from, before heading from the cell area and instructing the guards to lock it behind him with a gesture of his hand. He then sat down at his desk and began the tedious task of filing the past week's crime details. The thing about an idea, though, was that once one was planted, every thought that spilled unbidden towards it had an odd way of making it grow. Such was the case of Sherlock's suggestion that Greg was attracted to _Mycroft_ of all people. Try as he might, Greg found his thoughts drifting to the older Holmes more often than not in the tedious repetition of paperwork.

 

Sure, Mycroft was handsome in his own sort of way. Ginger hair has always been a bit of a favourite for Greg, and the dark blue of Mycroft's eyes were often a comparison point in Greg's mind when he thought between the two brothers. He was tall, lean frame, impeccable fashion sense, that Greg was pretty sure was used to cover the lithe form beneath those suits that was probably more than fit for more than just officewo--

 

Greg dropped the file in his hands as his stomach plummeted to the floor.

 

“ _Shit_ ,” He hissed between his teeth, as he felt the stirring of arousal sear through him as his last thought continued quite vividly and burned uncomfortably through him, “Fucking _Christ_ , he's right...”

 

Greg was attracted to Mycroft bloody Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel almost a little uncomfortable writing chapters less than 3k, but I just don't have the energy or patience for that business every day, yooooo. Not gonna. Can't. Still, this is going well, I think. Maybe?


	6. Day 6 - Supercharged Moment/Goo Goo Eyes – Disarmed By Someone In OTP

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came to post this chapter, only to realise I didn't actually update yesterday. I don't know how I lost a day? Oops. I was so proud of myself for sticking to schedule, too. Baaaaaaaaaalls. 
> 
> Anyway, I'll make it up to you peeps tomorrow!

It was dark by the time Greg got home that night, having distracted himself from his thoughts for hours by buckling down and polishing off a month's worth of paperwork in the one go. Sally didn't say a word, but she did raise her eyebrows in questioning concern as she'd left for the day, and Greg really couldn't blame her. He hated paperwork, and it was a tad out of character, to say the least. He set his keys down on the kitchen counter, before his eyes locked on the paperwork left there, glaringly obvious even in the dark. Seems Laura was definitely set on the divorce idea then.

 

He kicked off his shoes and quietly opened his bedroom door, not sure what to expect, but oddly relieved to find that Laura apparently wasn't staying home tonight. Whoever she was likely sharing a bed with, Greg sent them a silent prayer of luck, because God knows they'd need it. He let out a few choice words, as he sit down on the edge of his mattress and stripped down to his boxers, falling onto his back and glaring petulantly at the ceiling. What a _bitch_. Leaves the papers there, and then doesn't even stay home to discuss it? Christ. 

 

He'd loved her once, he knew that much. Somewhere back in the day. He wondered if life would have been terribly too different if he hadn't have dumped his high school boyfriend for her. In the end though, Richard probably wouldn't have been too fond of his late nights and may very well have ended up as bitter as Laura herself. He briefly entertained the thought of contacting him. They'd remained friends through the years, and there was definitely still chemistry there. If there was ever a time to hook up with an old flame, wouldn't a failing marriage be just the right occasion? When Greg picked up his mobile, however, he found himself scrolling without a second thought to a different contact instead, and well, if that wasn’t a sign of how much shit he was in, he didn't know what was. Regardless, he composed a text and fired it off. 

 

**Me**

 

_ Came home to divorce papers. Laura not even home.  _

 

He rest his phone on his stomach and continued to idly stare at the ceiling until his phone chimed with a reply. 

 

**M. Holmes**

 

_Cowardly, to say the least. Are you alright? MH_

 

**Me**

 

_I'll live. Pissed off though. Sorry for texting so late._

 

**M. Holmes**

 

_I'll have my lawyer call you in the morning. It's quite alright. Still working. MH_

 

Greg glanced at the time and frowned. Did the man even sleep? Can't have been healthy.

 

**Me**

 

_Still? You're shitting me? Alright, well I'll leave you to it._

 

**M. Holmes**

 

_Unfortunately not, no. You're a welcome distraction. Feel free to continue. MH_

 

 

Given Greg's new found attraction to the man, it probably wasn't his wisest decision to then have an hour long texting session with Mycroft until he was tired enough to wish the man goodnight, but that was exactly what he did. He found that Mycroft, with his endless wit and sometimes scathing sarcasm was surprisingly easy to talk to, and despite Greg's previous foul mood, he found his spirits lifting and his lips curling into a smile as their conversation wore on. As he put his phone down for the night and pulled the covers up, his eyelids growing heavy, he had a brief enough moment of clarity to think ' _uh oh_ ', before sleep was dragging him into its clutches. 

 

 

 

Greg found himself texting Mycroft at least once a day through the week following Sherlock's latest arrest and subsequent release, offering useless titbits of information or spouting random thoughts that crossed his mind, but the thing that surprised him most was that Mycroft always replied. It was somewhat reassuring to know that whatever nonsense Greg spouted, Mycroft accepted it with nary a bat of the eye. 

 

** Me **

 

_ Crime scene today was absolutely covered in apple peels. Sherlock insists they're not related to the crime and is happy to leave it at that, but I need answers. This'll drive me up the wall.  _

 

** M. Holmes **

 

_ Perhaps the killer has a phobia of doctors...? MH _

 

** Me **

 

_ You ever have any pets as a kid? Just got the shit scratched out of me by my old lady's cat. _

 

** M. Holmes **

 

_ We had a dog, yes. Or more so, Sherlock had a dog, and I had another mouth to feed. He was... pleasant, to an extent. Cats are decidedly more charming. MH _

 

**Me**

 

_ Could have sworn I saw you on the telly at some political conference in Germany this afternoon. _

 

** M. Holmes **

 

_ Das ist richtig. MH _

 

**Me**

 

_ Long day. Heading down to the local for a pint. You free? _

 

**M. Holmes**

 

_ I'll see you shortly.  _

 

 

Greg cradled his glass in his hands and stared at the amber liquid before him. It was a Friday, he was allowed a few quiet pints, and he was a grown man, so he was allowed to invite his friend out with him without it having to mean a damn thing. Besides, after the day he'd had (two homicides, a case of aggressive and gut churning domestic abuse, and a brawl at one of the local supermarkets of all places), he could bloody well spend time with whoever he pleased. It just so happened that he'd chosen Mycroft, and he forcibly told the little voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock to kindly piss off with the assumptions it was making. 

 

Still, as Greg looked across to the bar door opening and Mycroft himself stepping through, the odd clench in his stomach was telling a whole other story, as Mycroft met his gaze and offered a small smile, heading over to the bar and ordering a bottle of wine before making his way through the throng of people to sit across from the Inspector.

“Gregory, you're looking well,” Mycroft said by way of greeting, and Greg grinned, tipping his head forward in acknowledgement.

“Not looking too shabby yourself,” he mused, shifting a gaze across the other man, who was dressed a little down from his usual attire. Still wearing tailored pants and a collared shirt, but no tie, and he was wearing a sweater that looked like it probably cost more than Greg's car. The Inspector's fingers flexed instinctively with the urge to touch it and see if it was as soft as it looked, but he managed to restrain himself and clink his glass against Mycroft's as the other man offered a 'cheers' and drank from his wine. 

 

As they spoke, alcohol slowly draining away, Greg felt some of the tension begin to ease from him, and took a little more pleasure than he probably ought to have from the flush creeping its way across Mycroft's cheeks as his wine bottle grew steadily emptier. 

“I haven't done this for years,” Mycroft murmured, as he finished his second to last glass from the bottle, his voice rich and smooth and far too alluring for Greg, who was already five pints in and pleasantly buzzed. 

“What, drank?” He mused, and Mycroft scoffed just slightly. 

“No, I usually have a glass of wine with dinner,” Mycroft smiled softly, staring down at his glass as he absent mindedly ran a finger around the rim and stared at the last dregs of wine resting at the bottom. “I simply mean that I haven't spent time with somebody and had companionable drinks purely for the purpose of spending time with somebody and having companionable drinks in quite some time. It's always business, you see.” 

 

“You work too hard,” Greg offered with a shrug, and Mycroft frowned slightly, filling his glass once more before twisting it between his fingers. 

“I often wonder if that's true, yes,” Mycroft let out a small sigh, “In any case, your company is enjoyable. Thank you for your invitation.”

“My pleasure. Despite whatever your brother says, you're actually far more than tolerable,” Greg teased, offering a cheeky grin, and a slow smirk crept across Mycroft's lips and settled like molten lava in Greg's stomach. 

 

_ Christ _ that was alluring. 

 

Greg drained the rest of his pint, froth and all, before placing his glass down with a little more gusto than intended, and found himself all but pinned under Mycroft's gaze, the other man's eyes fixated on the trail of moisture across Greg's upper lip. It seemed entirely unconscious, and Greg tested it out just a little by flicking out his tongue to catch at some of the froth at the corner of his mouth. When Mycroft's breath hitched just slightly, Greg's stomach dropped to the floor with anticipation, as a spike of want arched through him like he'd been struck by lightning. Mycroft's gaze was hazed as it shifted to Greg's, and Greg's entire consciousness was screaming ' _ kiss me' _ internally on an infinite loop. He was positive,  _ positive _ that there was  _ want  _ there, and his heart beat in his throat as the moment stretched a little longer. Mycroft cleared his throat and tore his eyes away, however, draining the last of his glass and setting it atop the table as the bubble around them effectively shattered and Greg near dropped his head to the table in frustration then and there.

 

“Speaking of work, however,” Mycroft sighed, glancing at his watch, “I have to be up for a video conference with Beijing in six hours. I'd best at least attempt a little sleep.”

Greg cleared his own throat as Mycroft then stood, his hand curling over the handle of his umbrella, and Greg had never been more jealous of an inanimate object in his life. Mycroft extended his free hand, which Greg took and shook immediately, hand lingering perhaps a little longer than it should have, before they were wishing each other good night and heading their separate ways, longing sitting heavy in Greg's chest.

 

 

Greg only stayed for one other pint before heading home, finding Laura in bed and deciding he'd best sleep on the couch. He dozed briefly, only to wake up after an hour or so to find Laura seated on the armchair beside him. As soon as their eyes met, she let out a soft sigh and a quietly spoken 'I'm moving in with my sister until I find a place of my own. I can't do this any more'. Greg gave a small nod and an equally soft 'alright', as his wife ran a hand through her hair, looking ten years older than she really was, and Greg wondered briefly if it was him who had done that to her. She'd always been so youthful, so vibrant before him. 

“We should start seeing other people as well,” She said softly, and Greg almost laughed, wanting desperately to ask how that was any different to what she had been doing when she'd fucked the others, but he bit his tongue. Instead, he offered another quiet 'alright' and she padded softly back to bed, something akin to relief settling in his stomach. 

 

With a failed marriage and the loss of the woman he once loved beyond anything else, he wasn't happy. Happy wasn't the word for it, no, but maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that he could be. He pulled the blankets back over him, still groggy from lack of sleep and maybe a little too much booze, and let himself drift back into unconsciousness. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love slow burn, but I also just wanna mash their faces together. It's aggravating.


	7. Day Seven - Chapter Dedicated To Pining/Working Up Courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I'm kind of a terrible person. But I'm going to try and catch up on the two days I've missed today, so we can try this whole daily thing again tomorrow. Fuck.

The boxes were moved slowly and methodically, and the bitterness that sat heavy in Greg's chest demanded that he not move an inch as the strangers that shifted through his house did their thing. He'd taken the day off, although he didn't really know why. He'd spent a majority of the day sitting on the couch and steadily consuming the six pack that had been sitting in the fridge, as the movers worked on taking Laura's packed belongings down the stairs, out the door, and away from his life. Perhaps the most significant point of it all? Laura wasn't even there. There were foreign hands all over her belongings, packing any of the loose things into boxes and taking the prepacked ones without a word. She'd stayed at her sister's and let somebody else deal with her things, and wasn't that just poetic representation of her in a nutshell, Greg thought. He scoffed at his beer as he stared aimlessly at the TV, the last few boxes heading out the door.

“All done here, mate,” One of the movers offered, expression sympathetic, as Greg tilted his beer towards him in sarcastic cheers and blocked out the sound of them leaving.

 

He turned up the telly and leaned further back into the couch cushions, looking around at the significantly barer lounge and feeling his throat constrict a little.

“Jesus Christ,” He breathed, setting his beer down and running his hands over his face. When they'd said their vows, he'd had no idea it would ever end like this. No idea it _could_ end like this. He picked up his phone and stared at it for a few moments, before heading to his contacts and scrolling through until he found who he was looking for, and pressed dial before he could change his mind.

“ _Hello?_ ” The soft voice drifted down the line, and his heart clenched a little in his chest at the familiar sense of calm that it brought with it.

“Heya, how's it going?” He offered quietly.

“ _Oh hey dad! I didn't even check caller ID,_ ” Sienna smiled through the line, “ _How's it going? Everything okay?_ ”

 

It was a loaded question, Greg thought, but he'd answer as best as he could. Sienna had been studying in Wales for a decent year now, and she'd thankfully missed the worst of his and Laura's deteriorating relationship. She hadn't missed all of it though, and he knew that although he should probably feel a little guilty over it, he was thrilled when his daughter had begun to increasingly take his side in their arguments. It had been just another thing for Laura to be bitter about, but Greg had been so proud of his little girl for being able to call bullshit as she saw fit.

 

“Your mother sent movers in today,” He offered with a sigh, and Sienna offered a little gasp down the line.

“ _What, she stood there and got other people to waltz in and move her shit around while you were there?_ ”

“Oh no, she was at your aunt's the entire time.”

“ _What?! That_ bitch! _God dad, I'm so sorry. Are you alright?_ ” She all but cooed, and Greg could hear pages turning in the background. Seemingly she was studying and he felt even guiltier for pulling his daughter into his emotional turmoil as she worked on maintaining her near perfect grades.

“I'll be alright sweetheart,” He smiled, realising that he was actually starting to believe that just by hearing his daughter's voice, “How's school?”

“ _Same old. Katy managed to set herself on fire in the labs just the other day,_ ” Sienna remarked casually, and Greg snorted down the line.

“Jesus, is she alright?”

“ _She's fine. Gave herself a fabulous eyebrow job in the meantime, but I don't think I've ever laughed that hard in my life._ ”

“Sienna,” Greg chided, and she laughed, further easing his tension.

 

She was studying to be a forensic scientist, and had often joked that she'd be working with her old man in no time. On top of that, she kept harassing him for Molly's details, which was not going to happen, but Sienna had often whined ' _networking,_ Dad! It's important!' as her response, and he knew that regardless, Sienna was the type who would end up with Molly's number one way or another.

“ _I know, I know. Responsibility, don't laugh at others when they're in pain, et cetera, but man, it was like some messed up version of ghost rider for a few seconds,_ ” Sierra sighed in amusement, “ _Any way, forget about that, and forget about mum. I don't doubt for a second that she's out tarting it up, why aren't you? Question of the day. You're a free man, pops!_ ”

“We're not divorced yet, you cheeky brat,” Greg feigned annoyance, and Sierra snorted, “Remind me again why I even bother calling you?”

“ _Because I'm_ charming _. It's a gift. It depresses the hell out of me to think of you sitting there sulking around, when you could be out playing the silver fox card,”_ Sierra teased, and it was Greg's turn to snort. Children were more trouble than they were worth, he swore it.

 

“Who says I haven't been out?” He teased, and she gasped.

“Have _you? Have you, have you, have you? Tell me!_ ”

“No!” Greg laughed, before hesitating over his next words, “But, coincidentally, I _have_ made a friend.”

“ _Is it the type of friend you shag mercilessly on the nearest available surface?”_

“Sienna!”

“ _Alright, alright! Just asking!”_ She laughed, as Greg shook his head, grinning from ear to ear.

“No it isn't, Christ,” Greg sighed, “But I don't know. There's definitely something appealing about him that I can't quite put my finger on.”

“ _Is it his dick? Cause you never know, he might actually_ want _your fingers on it._ ”

“Sienna! Jesus _Christ_!” Greg laughed, although an undeniable fondness for his daughter was positively bursting through him. She barely bat a lash at his sexuality at the best of times, and now seemed to be no different. Water off of a duck's back, and it always had been when it came to his little girl.

 

“ _Alright, serious time though,_ ” Sienna spoke suddenly softly, and Greg ran a hand over his hair again, “ _Have you asked him out? Like, a date or something?_ ”

Greg frowned and stared at the ceiling before answering.

“It's... complicated,” He offered meekly, and her sigh was loud and clear down the line.

“ _That's the biggest cop-out I've ever heard. What's your excuse?_ ”

“It seems a bit too soon. We haven't spoken too much, and with everything with your mother, I ju-”

“ _Forget about ma, Jesus. She didn't seem to give a shit when she had her thighs around someone else,”_ Sienna spoke, tone a little harsher than previously, “ _Don't you dare let her get in the way of your happiness, especially since she's now made the decision to leave. She's been making you miserable long enough. Get in there._ ”

“Shouldn't it be the parent giving the child the life advice?” Greg asked fondly, pressing the phone closer to his ear and missing his daughter more desperately than ever.

“ _Not everybody is blessed with perfect children, dad. Count your blessings,_ ” Sienna offered, and Greg offered a sigh as she giggled down the phone, before a knock sounded at the door.

 

“Uh, someone's just come to the door,” He frowned, standing and heading over to peer through the keyhole.

“ _Movers forget something?_ ” Sienna asked, as Sally picked at her nails on the opposite side of the door.

“Nah, it's Sally,” He explained, opening the door and gesturing his colleague in before closing the door behind her, “I might have to give you a call back.”

“ _All good, pops. Just remember what I said, alright?_ ” She pressed and he sighed in defeat, as Sally plopped herself down on his armchair and frowned at the room around her.

“Alright, alright,” He acquiesced, “I'll talk to you later?”

“ _Sure thing. Say hi to Sally!_ ”

“Will do. Love you.”

“ _You too, dad._ ”

 

Greg sat down on the sofa then and offered a tired smile in Sally's direction.

“Sienna says hi,” He explained, and Sally offered a small smile in return.

“She's a good kid,” Sally nodded, gesturing at the room around them, “This the reason you haven't come in?”

“Laura sent a hoard of movers in,” Greg shrugged, as Sally offered a sympathetic frown, “Doesn't matter, it's all good. What brings you here?”

“Double homicide. Locked room. Freak's been sniffing around and Dimmock's starting to lose his cool,” Sally frowned in distaste at the mere mention of Sherlock, and Greg sighed, as he stood and pulled on his coat.

“Need someone to pull on his reigns then, I'm guessing?” Greg asked, as Sally offered a small smirk.

“Your words, not mine,” She offered, as she stepped outside and let Greg lock the door of the near empty flat behind him. No use sulking, he thought, not with Sienna on his case and a fresh perspective on the prospect of attempting something new.

 

He felt his lips curl just slightly into a smile as he pocketed his phone and headed to his car.

  1. 


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sienna Lestrade is my spirit animal. Also, I don't know if any of you have ever had to be the person to give relationship/life advice to a parent, but HOW WEIRD IS IT? I'll never get used to it. Ever.


	8. Day Eight - Shy/Awkward Request For First Date

The double homicide locked room case was like watching a kid in a candy store when it came time to finally let Sherlock on the scene. It had been four days now though, and it wasn't all that much closer to being solved than prior to Sherlock's nose being stuck in. Sherlock had about eighty different pieces of a puzzle, and for whatever reason, had easily done the outline but was stuck on the pieces in the middle. Greg had been texting Sherlock a few times a day, but the man seldom replied, and when he did, it was often to tell the Inspector to piss off and let him work. Not for the first time, Greg considered how easy it would be to cut Sherlock off completely. Instead, Greg stuck his feelers out and tried his luck with the elder Holmes instead.

 

**Me**

 

_Your brother's driving me mad._

 

**M. Holmes**

 

_It seems to be a hobby of his. MH_

 

**Me**

 

_He's perfected it, then._

 

**M. Holmes**

 

_He's been practicing for years on me. MH_

 

**Me**

 

_I feel for you. You wouldn't happen to know anything about the Madison case would you by the way?_

 

**M. Holmes**

 

_I'm afraid not. I'll let you know if that changes, of course. MH._

 

Banter was still easy with Mycroft, and Greg still found himself smiling down at his phone like an idiot, jumping guiltily on the afternoon when Sally had caught him in the act with a conspiratorial grin. She hadn't said anything though, hadn't even known who Greg was texting, but that didn't matter. She knew something was up, and that was more than enough to make Greg anxious.

 

* * *

 

 

He'd convinced himself that he'd be asking Mycroft out at some point, but had since talked himself out of it and back into the idea at least four times. For some reason, it didn't feel right to do it over the phone, and he wasn't sure when he'd be able to do it in person. Thankfully, or not so thankfully, the opportunity presented itself when Sherlock had gotten a lead and gone bounding head first after a murderer with Greg stumbling to catch up to the man. By the time he got to the scene, Sherlock had apprehended the suspect, but not without injury. The consulting detective, as Sherlock had taken to calling himself, had a nasty gash across his collarbone from the struggle, and Greg's stomach had only plummeted further when Sherlock had calmly advised him that he'd also been shot at and had a wound across his left side before losing consciousness on the scene.

 

It had been an anxious ride to the hospital where they immediately bustled Sherlock in for treatment, and within ten minutes, Greg found himself face to face with a mildly concerned looking Mycroft Holmes.

“Gregory,” He nodded politely as Greg ran a hand through his own hair, which was already sticking up awkwardly from where he'd been tugging on it the past ten minutes.

“Christ, Mycroft, Sherlock, he-”

“He'll be perfectly alright, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft offered a small smile, fingers curling around his omnipresent umbrella, “It's not the first time he's been shot at, and with that mouth of his, undoubtedly, it will not be the last.”

Greg let out a long breath, his elbows resting on his knees as he buried his face in his hands.

“I'm going to lose my job over this,” He murmured, “Sherlock nearly got himself killed. On my case. Christ, I'd only just signed the paperwork to take it over today. He's a bloody civilian, and they'll hang me for-”

Greg trailed off as he felt a hand rest upon his shoulder, before it squeezed reassuringly. He lifted his gaze from his hands and turned to face Mycroft, who was regarding him with an amused sense of affection.

 

“Have you ever been told that you worry too much, Gregory?” Mycroft mused, and Greg let out a small huff of laughter, shaking his head as he turned his gaze to his shoes.

“More than you probably realise,” Greg murmured, and Mycroft's thumb smoothed along the stitching of Greg's coat.

“You worry about keeping Sherlock busy, and I shall worry about keeping him out of trouble,” Mycroft offered a soft smile, and Greg found himself returning it, straightening up and letting out a controlled breath, causing Mycroft's hand to slide from his shoulder. The touch was immediately missed, and Greg realised that while it may not be the best time, it may be the only time he had for a while. He cleared his throat and scratched awkwardly at his head.

“So, Mycroft...” He began, and the other man regarded him with curiosity, “I was wondering... I mean, we've chatted quite a bit, and we get along really well, and I was thinking...”

“Yes, Gregory?”

“I mean, I know it's probably considered pretty forward and all, but it didn't seem to be the right thing to do to text, and I just figured... I mean, that is to say...”

 

“This is almost painful,” Mycroft mused, and Greg felt a flush creeping along his cheeks as Mycroft offered a knowing smile in his direction. Jesus Christ, he was a lost cause.

“Right, so...Date?” Greg shrugged, and Mycroft actually chuckled, his gaze shifting from Greg to the umbrella he was turning in his gaze as Greg's cheeks positively glowed.

“Is that a statement, or are you propositioning me, Inspector?” Mycroft mused, turning his gaze to Greg, who rubbed his hands across his face and groaned, causing Mycroft to chuckle again.

“I am free tomorrow evening. I accept your eloquent proposal,” Mycroft mused, and Greg snorted in spite of himself, running a hand through his hair and grinning at the elder Holmes, who held his gaze a fraction longer than was probably appropriate. To his absolute delight, Mycroft was first to break the eye contact, a faint blush across his cheeks, as he cleared his throat and stood.

“I'll have to head back to work, so I'll need to be checking in with Sherlock's doctor before I leave,” He offered quietly, “But I imagine you'll text me?”

“Definitely,” Greg rushed, and Mycroft smirked a little, tipping his head in farewell, before disappearing down the hall.

 

Well, Greg thought, that could have gone a hell of a lot better, but Christ, it definitely wasn't the worst outcome. He had a date with Mycroft Holmes. He, Gregory Lestrade, had a _date_ with Mycroft bloody Holmes. He grinned to himself, momentarily forgetting his other dilemma until the doctor patching Sherlock up approached him and advised him that the detective would indeed be fine.

 

It was just as well, because Greg was ready to kill him.

 

Not before his date though.

 

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm the worst at daily updates, but I'm totally not catching up tonight. Two tomorrow instead. Sweet dreams to meee~


End file.
